


Distract Me.

by chocolatechipcumbercookie (labelleplume)



Series: The Distraction of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, BBC, F/M, Sex, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Holmes/You - Freeform, Sherlock/You
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelleplume/pseuds/chocolatechipcumbercookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I’m an amateur writer and honestly this is my first attempt at writing this kind of stuff so I really hope that it turns out well and that you wonderful people like it.</p><p>This takes place in the context that ‘you’ and Sherlock have an established relationship before this.  Not sexual, but not quite friendship.  This is when it becomes most definitely sexual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distract Me.

Standing outside 221B, you can hear music. Sherlock must be playing the violin again, you don’t want to knock for fear of interrupting it. The way he plays, it’s like nothing else. So… intimate. You feel a tingling of jealousy for the violin and that ends your internal debate about whether or not to interrupt. The sharp knock cuts off the violin music and the door opens. You hide a smirk at the thought that you have Sherlock’s attention now, not the violin. Gods above, are you really dueling it out with an inanimate instrument?

“Hello,” Sherlock says in surprise, “I wasn’t expecting you.” Well that’s new, usually Sherlock anticipates what you are going to do down to the word choice of your sentence. Surprising him is an accomplishment.

“I finished work early and thought I might drop by. Is this a bad time?” you explain honestly and fervently hope he doesn’t have a case he’s working on.

“No no, it’s fine,” he assures you, “John and I just finished a case so I have nothing to distract me from the boredom.” He ushers you inside.

“Where’s John?” you ask, seemingly from friendly concern but really you don’t want to share Sherlock.

“He went out earlier for groceries then the hospital called him in. He’ll be working quite late, I wouldn’t expect to see him today.”

“Ah, that’s too bad.” Internally you are elated.

“Is it really?” Sherlock scrutinizes you and immediately you control your facial expressions, not wanting to be found out. After a moment, he looks away, thoughtful.

“Have you been playing Cluedo lately?” You notice the board on the kitchen table, a change from the usual array of experiments that cover it.

“Attempted would be a better term for it. John refused to continue playing because the rules said it wasn’t possible for the victim to have done it,” Sherlock sounds a bit disgruntled then brightens, “Do you have any objections to a game?” For someone so brilliant, you are astonished that he’s so oblivious. Of course you want to play a game, just not that one. He turns away from you to put his violin back in its case. “John has been busy of late with that doctor friend of his. What was her name? Oh yes, Sarah.”

“You know,” you say, seeing an opportunity, “you always have me.” Biting your lip, you glance down at the floor, afraid you’ve gone too far. He stops in front of you and you look up at him. His sea-green eyes are trained on yours and he’s captured you in his gaze, unable to look away. It feels as though he can see through you to what you’ve been hiding in plain sight all this time.

“You’re right. I _do_ always have you.” The deep rumble of his voice sets your heart racing. And this time, there’s no concealing it from him. He claims one of your wrists where your thudding pulse is apparent. “Distract me,” he commands. You stare at him in wonder for a moment, then a mischievous grin settles on your face. To call what you have in mind “distraction”, would be an understatement.

Thoughts in sync, you follow him to his bedroom. The wordless communication you often shared with him when John was present, is about to be put to far better use. You trail your fingertips across those defined cheekbones the other hand slowly lowering yourself onto his dishevelled sheets. Sherlock follows after your touch, but unsure where to place himself in relation to you. He seems to be warring with himself, his normal indifference coming undone in his need for someone else. No, not someone else. You.

He brings his face close to yours and you stroke his cheek again, brushing the dark locks against the back of your hand. Sherlock’s skin is so smooth, like marble but not cold as he tries to appear. Under your influence, he feels warm. Carefully, so as to not alarm him, you press your lips to his. The curve of his mouth parts for you and his breath fills your lungs, his scent like rain, and you inhale more deeply trying to capture it in your veins. The sudden feeling of his tongue tracing the rim of your chapstick startles you and you laugh against his lips.

“You taste like cinnamon,” Sherlock’s sonorous voice comments, and he tastes you again just to be sure. “And just a hint of nutmeg.”

“Ever the scientist aren’t you?” you murmur as you leave his mouth and follow his jawline.

“Quite,” he answers a little breathlessly as you gently nip at the heartbeat just beneath the sensitive skin at his throat, “I always enjoy experimentation.” He grows more confident and tangles his long slender fingers in your hair pulling you back to his mouth more urgently. He seems to have gently thawed, his inhibitions slowly fading and his movements become more heated. Sherlock kisses you more deeply than before, and in retaliation for the bite at his neck he catches your lip between his teeth and pulls slightly. Your hands cup around his shoulders and slide down the lithe length of his body until you hook them into his belt, tugging his weight to settle across you. He fits against you perfectly, something not lost on you as you pull his shirt untucked and run your fingers across his hard core, sending a shiver down his spine.

A quick learner, Sherlock parts your legs around him. You pull back from the kiss to find his eyes darkened and his cheeks flushed. Arching your back, you press yourself against him, raising the material of his shirt with your hands so you can see his bare skin. Your lower regions begin to throb. He catches the zipper of your jacket with his teeth and unzips it, torturously aware of the effect of seeing his face so close along the length of your body but never touching, has on you. But Sherlock makes his way back to his former position fairly quickly, pushing the now loose jacket off your shoulders into a crumpled shape quickly tossed to the floor. The thin tank top you have on underneath is now revealed, and you get goosebumps down your arms from the sudden air. His dress shirt is a deep purple hue that complements the tint of his cheeks well. Sherlock closes his eyes as you touch his throat then move your fingers to the buttons. As much as you want to get the dress shirt off of him, you appreciate the sensuality of having to unbutton each button, working to see each revealed sinuous part of his body. It joins your jacket on the floor and then he’s pulling your tank top over your head with all the speed that couldn’t be afforded to the dress shirt. You smirk at him, he’s impatient.

Sherlock buries his face in your neck, his chocolate curls brushing your chin and you lean your head back to push your neck into him. He sucks at your fevered skin, leaving a constellation of marks before reaching your bra. Here he looks up at you, wordlessly asking your permission. Sherlock never asks anyone permission for anything he does. But then again, you realize, he’s never done this before. Without hesitation you nod your assent and he unhooks the back and lifts it away from you leaving you very exposed. Your nipples harden, and delicately he strokes circular motions around the darkened skin with a dexterity born of his experience with a violin. But now you’re his instrument, and you _respond_. An uncontrolled gasp leaves your lips and he smiles as he finds the rhythm you play to. Sherlock’s hot tongue runs across the swell of your flesh, soothing the rawness the friction of his thumbs have left behind. One of your hands grasps its way to his hair, linking your fingers through his locks, while the other clenches into the mattress.

“Not good?” he asks, and you feel the question as a vibration through your breast rather than hear it. With it you can feel the insecurity in the tone, worried he’s not doing this right. Sherlock’s earnest attempts to please you send a rush of affection through you and you hurry to reassure him that he is doing everything _exactly right_.

“Very, _very_ good Sherlock.” His licks and teases make you tremble in anticipation and your groin begins to ache. His fingertips trail lightly past your navel and then very demandingly grasp your hips, pushing them down. The adrenaline makes you less than careful when trying undo the zipper on his pants and it catches on the fabric. You let out an exasperated note and Sherlock gets up from you with an amused expression on his face as he finishes your fumbled attempt. He’s much more gentle when sliding your jeans off and your breath quickens as he glides the palms of his hands over your ass to push the jeans down. You thank the deities that be that you chose not to wear skinny jeans today. The thought of Sherlock struggling to pull the tight material off your calves makes you giggle and he raises his eyebrow questioningly but you simply press your lips together. The jeans and pants somehow end up in the heap of clothing on the floor.

The thin cotton boxers do nothing to hide his desire and you can feel an encouraging firm bulge against your inner thigh as he slides his hands under your back and pulls you against him. You can feel every line of his figure and muscles around his shoulder blades ripple the skin beneath your hands. Twisting your legs around him, you flip him over underneath you and kneel above him. Just as his boxers did nothing to conceal his desire, your undergarments have already exceeded their capacity for absorption and a wetness is left behind on his stomach where you wrapped your legs around him. You slink your hands along his torso like a cat as you pull down on the elastic of his underwear, baring him of the last remaining barrier between you and his stiffening length.

“Lay back,” you instruct and he immediately complies, stretching out his glorious frame in front of you, his gleaming green eyes following you with a seductive gaze, watching what you’ll do next. Leaning down and pushing his thighs apart, you take him in your mouth, coaxing him to a full erection. The scent of rain is now mixed with a muskier smell that clings to you. Sherlock slides like the bow of his violin between your lips, instinctively thrusting shallowly into your mouth all the while making noises you never thought he was capable of making. You grip his abdomen, forcing him to still himself and he cries out for mercy.

“What was that?” you ask, intoxicated with the power you wield over him.

“Please!” Sherlock begs, and his legs tremble from the pleasure.

“Again,” you say imperiously with the palm of your hand pressing your weight on his chest.

“ _Please!_ ” he gasps out and you smile in delight. You lower your swollen lips back onto him and lick from the base to the crown and he shouts out loud, turning his face into the pillow to try and muffle the sound.

“No Sherlock, I want to hear _every_ sound I elicit from you. Understood?” you ask and he nods mutely, his eyes bright from lust and something more. He feels something, and under the frenzied desire you can see the depth of caring for you that previously you had thought nonexistent. The bed shifts, and Sherlock rolls over trapping you beneath him, knocking the breath from you and planting his hands on your shoulders pushing you roughly into the pillow.

“Bloody hell Sherlock!” you exclaim.

“My turn, love,” he growls possessively, “I’ll make you sing music for me.” The pathetic soaked piece of underwear clinging to you disappears. You lose all thought of resistance as he buries himself between your folds. The rhythm he runs along your clit with starts off simple, slow repetitive strokes of his tongue against the swollen flesh. It becomes increasingly complex and your hips lift off the bed without your permission. It’s an effort to giggle, but you do so breathlessly anyway as you recognize the beat.

“Mozart’s twelve variations,” you moan as he adds his fingers to the complex tune pushing them inside you and proceeding trill his fingertips against your inner wall like he would a violin string.

“Sing,” Sherlock purrs sensuously and you cry out a full octave higher than your natural range. Then he kneels back, cutting off the rhythm, pulling you into his lap where you embrace him with your quivering limbs. You fold your legs around him and his cock presses insistently against your stomach. Neither of you have climaxed yet.

“You stopped,” you accuse although you know exactly why he did.

“For precisely the same reason you did love,” he replies.

“It’s not over yet. Together,” you whisper into his ear. He nods his head in assent.

“Ride me, love,” his satiny voice demands.

“Fuck, _yes_.” Sherlock sinks into you and you can feel the whole of him inside you. That in and of itself already has you on edge. Then he begins to _move_. Gripping your hips so hard, you can already tell that you’ll have bruises, but if anything you want him to hold you _tighter_. Sherlock thrusts upwards and you use your knees as leverage to fall onto him with equal force so that every thrust penetrates deeper. The tempo begins slow and steady, gradually increasing. It crescendos and you know that this is his most difficult composition yet. Looking down you can see where you end and he begins and the view almost makes you come right then and there. Leaning forward, you shift your weight so that Sherlock tumbles backward onto the bed.

You continue to ride him, lingering at the end of each pull and push leaving you both desperate for more. Bracing your feet against the headboard your grind your clit against his muscles and are rewarded by a burst of wetness that drenches his cock. The sudden force makes Sherlock moan and the low baritone makes the whole bed vibrate and you feel it run through your core. You lean over him, pinning his wrists above his head, and hang your full breasts tantalizingly over his face. You have never felt more alive than drumming out all the wait and frustration of Sherlock not noticing you in the pulsing ache between your legs. He’s noticing you now.

“Tighter!” he cries out and you clench down on him hard, leaning your forehead against his in the brief break in rhythm. The resounding yell signals your success. You just want to fuck him for eternity. The pounding is relentless and you focus on the feel of Sherlock sliding in and out of you, the friction so intense you feel as though you might burst from the oncoming storm. Your combined breathing becomes jagged and rough and stutters as the tempo trails off erratically as your duet loses control. You shout into Sherlock’s chest as you finally climax and he presses you closer to him as he can no longer resist the orgasm that sweeps over him.

For several minutes both of you lay there, gasping for breath, completely spent. Regaining some control over himself, Sherlock pulls out of you and rolls to the side, still facing you.

“And here I thought there was nothing better than solving a case,” he laughed. You give him a weak smile in return.

“I guess I can deduce how you want to spend your time when you’re not working on cases from now on?” you ask.

“Oh god, yes.”


End file.
